


bone tired

by jeepsarmitage



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Carmilla centric, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4338632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeepsarmitage/pseuds/jeepsarmitage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Expressions come alive before her; people she has only envisioned in the depths of her mind are birthed on canvas amongst the shades of blue and red and green. Each detail is meticulously thought out; planned, painted and then repainted over and over and over until it’s right. </i>
</p><p>also known as: <b> the one in which i speculate about Carmilla's past </b></p>
            </blockquote>





	bone tired

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonielb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonielb/gifts).



**bone tired**

.

_And I swear I won't walk out_  
_Taking the easy way out_

 - Gomez 

 

//

 

She runs away when she’s fifteen.

 

///

 

She’s lucky, all things considering. It could be a lot worse. She meets a man and he takes her in; feeds her, clothes her, allows her to stay. She isn’t expected to do anything in return, and she is thankful because, in all honesty, she doesn’t have anything much to give to him. With no money to her name and little education, there isn’t much she can do except plead her unwavering loyalty.

 

He waves her off. 

 

“It is no issue,” he tells her, in that blunt fashion she found was common in the area. “You are a wonderful guest!”

 

He asks no questions about her life. Wants no explanations as to how she came to be alone. He simply takes her in, gives her a home, and for that she feels guilty.

 

///

 

The Austrian countryside is a peaceful place, and Mircalla finds herself spending many hours of the day sitting under the shade of the trees.

 

She’s taken a liking to painting, and much to her surprise she harbours a talent for the art. The way the brush felt against the canvas, the mixing of the colours, and the way the images came to life before her makes her soul ache.

 

Expressions come alive before her; people she has only envisioned in the depths of her mind are birthed on canvas amongst the shades of blue and red and green. Each detail is meticulously thought out; planned, painted and then repainted over and over and over until it’s right.

 

Until it’s perfect.

 

///

 

“You should sell your paintings,” the man says. Jean-Pierre, his name is; a French nobleman, who had married an Austrian peasant against the will of his family. They had disinherited him, Mircalla discovers, several months after they take her in. It explains why they were so open to her presence in their household. She is grateful, though. She is forever grateful.

 

“I do not think anyone would be interested.”

 

“Nonsense! You have talent. Like nothing I have ever seen before! We will take them into the city tomorrow, and we will not return until someone purchases them.”

 

///

 

She sells two, and while the price is not terrible, she knows that they are worth more.

 

///

 

The young man doesn’t know that Mircalla sees him, but she does.

 

He comes around most days, and Mircalla watches him from the corner of her eye. He stays under a tree, off to her right and remains there while she paints, watching her with what Mircalla can only describe is apt attention. It’s endearing, she thinks, to have an admirer. Flattering, and she almost wishes he would come closer and begin talking to her.

 

He doesn’t, though, and so she decides to take matters into her own hands.

 

“You must be starved,” Mircalla calls, smiling over her shoulder as she removes the sandwiches from the basket. “You’ve been there all morning, after all. And don’t lie – I can hear your stomach from here.”

 

She hears footsteps and suddenly he’s there; tall and muscular, dressed in a fine suit and bowing his head in thanks as he takes the offered sandwich.

 

“My name is Mircalla,” she says, sitting down on the blanket spread out over the grass.

 

“Matthias.”

 

She can’t help but blush at the small smile he gives her.

 

///

 

They get married, a year after, and he takes her to the city. She thanks Jean-Pierre several times over, but he shakes his head and kisses her hand, wishing her the best for the future and making her promise not to forget them.

 

“I could never,” she gushes in response, grasping his hands in her own and holding them to her chest, “I will never forget you! Never!”

 

She learns, many centuries later, just how true that statement was.

 

///

 

Like every family in their circle of acquaintances, they attend balls in order to keep up with the happenings in the city.

 

Mircalla tolerates the experience; not being the sort of person that enjoys pretending to show interest in the mundane topics of conversation that her peers entertain. She would much rather remain at home, painting or reading. Matthias had begun to teach her letters shortly after their wedding, and now it has become a habit to sit together by the fire and read through one of the many volumes he has accumulated. It is a slow process, definitely, but she is getting better and finds the process enjoyable, second only to painting.

 

She has never been a social butterfly.

 

“The children are in bed, my love. Are you ready to leave?”

 

She turns and smiles at Matthias, taking his outstretched hand.

 

“Of course. Let me go say goodnight.”

 

Her nods once, and she leans up to kiss his cheek on her way out of the room.  She pushes open the door to the children’s room, smiling at the curled up forms on the beds. They stir slightly when she kisses their foreheads, and she whispers that she loves them before turning and leaving.

 

Matthias holds the door open and together they step out into the night.

 

///

 

It _hurts_.

 

///

 

 

Her body is burning, except it’s not. It just hurts, aches. Her bones scream and she clenches her teeth, trying desperately to will away the pain that burns under her skin. Nails dig into skin, and when she finally releases the scream that has been building in her chest, it’s animalistic. Raw. Primal.

 

And then it stops.

 

///

 

She can hear her name being called.

 

It’s faint, far away almost, but she can still hear it clearly. As if it’s being spoken directly into her mind. So she follows it, reaches for it, yearns for it.

 

She opens her eyes.

 

///

 

There’s wind on her face and fire in her chest but all that can think about is how _hungry_ she is.

 

///

 

There’s a lady who helps her, guides her. She’s tall and dark in both dress and character, and Mircalla would be lying if she said she isn’t at least a tiny bit afraid.

 

The woman is intimidating, and Mircalla newly heightened senses tell her that the woman is wrong somehow. That something is off. But the woman also offers her support, offers her guidance. The woman teaches her how to survive and despite the part inside her that is _screaming_ for her to run away, Mircalla follows.

 

It isn’t like she has anywhere else to go, anyway.

 

But the lady’s guidance doesn’t come freely, and Mircalla finds herself acting out of obligation rather than free will. It doesn’t sit right, of course it doesn’t, but the lady’s words ring loudly in her ears and she finds she has no other choice but to follow through.

 

“This is who you are now,”the lady hisses, “This is _what_ you are. You aren’t like them and they are nothing like you. This is what we must do to survive. Are you going to join me?”

 

Mircalla nods and follows. Of course she does.

 

///

 

Sometimes she goes to her home – her old home- and watches over Matthias as he sleeps, wishing more than anything that she can climb into bed next to him and pretend that this never happened.

 

And sometimes she goes into her children’s room and whispers words of love and hope over their sleeping forms.

 

“I’ll protect you,” she says, running a hand through their dark hair, “I’ll always protect you.”

 

Sometimes she stays all night, and sometimes she doesn’t. She always leaves before dawn with a heavy heart and heavier soul.

 

She’s a creature of the darkness now, after all.

 

 

It’s 1870 and she’s no longer Mircalla. Maman makes that much clear.

 

They’re in Austria, again, after spending the usual twenty years in various parts of Europe, entertaining Maman’s many aristocratic acquaintances. She wouldn’t call them friends, because Maman only uses them for her own agenda. They don’t know that, though, and it creates an uneasy feeling in Mircalla’s stomach.

 

No. In _Marcilla’s_ stomach. 

 

Mircalla doesn’t exist anymore. Not in the present, anyway.

 

///

 

They arrive in a horse-drawn carriage, and Maman makes sure she understands.

 

“Your name is Marcilla.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You are to stay for three months.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You mustn’t tell them anything of us.”

 

“I _know_.”

 

“Good. We’re almost there.”

 

///

 

 

She feels the cold hand of Maman on her neck and the rough hands of the gentleman on her waist before strong arms lift her up and then place her on the soft grass.

 

There’s voices, talking quickly and quietly and she figures this is a good enough time as any to awaken from her supposed near-death experience.

 

“Mother…” She flutters her eyes open and sits up slowly. “Mother what happened?”

 

“Oh! My darling Marcilla! I was so frightened!” Cold arms are flung around Marcilla’s neck and she hugs back. Maman does play the part well. She always does.

 

A blanket was placed over her shoulders and she doesn’t have to pay attention to know that her mother was asking for the location of the next town.

 

_“I can’t possibly delay…I will have to leave my darling and not hear of her until my return three-months hence…oh no! I can’t possibly impose on your kindness…oh…I suppose if it is of no bother…”_

She felt her mother kneel beside her.

 

“You have done well, my darling. Behave and I will see you soon.”

A kiss is placed on her forehead, before the coldness of her mother’s touch is gone and she hears the sound of the carriage being driven away.

 

She weeps.

 

///

 

Ell and her father treat her well, all things considering.

 

She is left on her own, for the most part, attending supper with the gentleman and his daughter before retiring to the sitting room to involve herself with one of the many volumes the master has collected. It’s an extensive collection, and Marcilla is slightly disappointed she wont have time enough to read them all.

 

Ell watches her read, her bright, blue eyes burning holes in the side of Marcilla’s head. The latter doesn’t need to look up to know Ell is watching. She can feel it, sense it almost, and it makes her skin crawl. The girl’s eyes are enticing, and Marcilla knows that if she turns and looks she will be captivated. And she can’t afford to have that happen.

 

She just can’t.

 

///

 

 

“Do you miss your mother?”

 

The question catches Marcilla off-guard and she stops in the middle of the pathway. Ell stops too and turns, tilting her head in question at Marcilla who quickly wipes the expression off of her face.

 

“I do.” She swallows and resumes walking, Ell falling in step next to her. “It has been a long time since I’ve been without Mother.”

 

“It is just the two of you then?” Ell questions, and Marcilla carefully retains her neutral expression. “Where is your father?”

 

“He died.”

 

“I apologise.”

 

Marcilla doesn’t reply and Ell doesn’t press for any more details. In the few weeks Marcilla has been staying at the estate, she has learnt that Marcilla doesn’t reveal many personal details about herself. It was unusual, definitely, but Ell didn’t pry and neither did her father.

 

 _“If the lady does not wish to reveal personal matters, that is none of our business.”_ Her father had said, _“If she wishes to indulge us with personal details, she will when she is ready_.”

And while Ell respects this she is, by nature, a curious person, and when the opportunity presents itself, she can’t help but try and get the strange woman to open up. It’s probably not the best thing to do, and it could possibly end in estranging Marcilla, but she does it anyway; asking questions about the woman’s personal life and family when she knows she shouldn’t. She does know when to stop though; she knows when she’s gone too far. And she respects that. She stops.

 

Sometimes though, Marcilla will continue, and Ell tries her hardest to commit every single detail about Marcilla’s personal life to memory.

 

///

 

They kiss next to the lake on a Sunday Morning.

 

It’s wet and awkward and they’re both giggling and blushing and when Marcilla pushes Ell’s hair back behind her ear, the touch sends jolts of electricity shooting through her body.

 

///

 

“Are you going to tell your father?”

 

A pause.

 

“No.”

 

(he finds out anyway and doesn’t think twice before telling Marcilla she needs to pack her bags)

 

///

 

Mother finds her, sleeping in the forest and she’s furious.

 

“We need that girl,” she says in the way that makes Marcilla feel like a small child again, despite the fact she stands a good six inches taller than her mother. “We need that girl and you ruined everything! Can you not do one simple thing, Marcilla? Is it so much to ask for you to do this one, simple thing?”

 

“No mother.”

 

“Then do tell me, Marcilla, why you are not inside the castle playing your role?”

 

There aren’t words enough to explain to mother how she has fallen in love with the charge, and the sound of skin-meeting-skin echoes between the darkened trees.

 

///

 

Ell finds her. Of course she does.

 

There’s crying and hugging, and wet lips are pressed against cold skin. Mumbled words of apology are whispered in between kisses and Marcilla doesn’t have the heart to push the girl away, no matter how much she knows she should.

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, resting her head against Ell’s, “your father would have your head if he knew.”

 

“I couldn’t just _leave_ you out here. Your mother isn’t due back for another week! You’ll freeze!”

 

“You can’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” Ell doesn’t look convinced so she adds, “There’s an inn up the road, and I have money.”

 

Ell shakes her head and opens her mouth to reply when the crack of a twig makes Marcilla turn on her heel, pushing Ell behind her.

 

“Marcilla, darling. What have I told you about playing with your food?”

 

“Mother.” She feels Ell tense behind her and tightens her grip on Ell’s wrist. “Ell was just leaving.”

 

Mother laughs, and Marcilla feels Ell twist out of her grip. Mother notices. Of course she does, and before Marcilla can do anything to stop her, Mother has Ell by the throat.

 

“Marcilla, my glittering girl, why is it that this child has ventured out in the dark to find you, when surely her time is much better spent in doors with her father?”

 

“I’m not certain, mother.”

 

Mother laughs, a throaty laugh that causes Marcilla to flinch and her muscles tense.

 

“I don’t believe you.”

 

Ell lets out a yelp as she’s thrown to the ground and it takes all of Marcilla’s willpower not to reach out and help her. Instead she holds her mother’s gaze, steady and unyielding despite the fact that every inch of her is shaking.

 

“I believe,” Mother says, stepping forward, “that you’ve gone and fallen in love with the girl.”

 

She smirks.

 

“But she can’t possibly love you back. Not really.”

 

///

Marcilla could still hear Ell’s screams centuries later.

 

//

 

 

It’s dark, and she isn’t sure how long it’s been dark for but it’s a long time.

 

She gives up trying to claw her way out after a while, because it’s evident that nobody can hear her and that whatever Maman had used to keep the coffin closed was incredibly strong.

 

Of course it would be; Maman was nothing if not smart.

 

So she waits, hoping and praying that _someone_ would find her. That by some grace of God she would be released, or that Maman would come back and let her out, calling Mircalla her glittering girl again.

 

It was a foolish hope, but she held onto it nonetheless.

 

//

 

She hears the canons before she feels them.

 

They’re load, louder than she had ever heard them before, and then the ground shakes and there’s an ear splitting _crack_ then moonlight is shining down on her and… _is that rain?_

She crawls out of the coffin and into the mud that surrounds it and the unmistakeable stench of death engulfs her senses. She’s hungry.

 

“Miss? Miss what are you doing out here?”

 

The poor boy never stood a chance.

 

//

 

It’s 1943, and Arcillma was entirely unprepared for what the new world brought

 

//

 

It takes Maman significantly longer to find her than she thought it would. Millarca is working in a coffee shop in Paris, when Maman walks in, all power and prestige and influence.

 

Millarca tries to fight her, she really does, but then Maman is running her finger down Millarca’s jawline and calling her _“my glittering girl”_ and Millarca is falling into Maman’s trap once again.

 

//

The game is the same, even if the scene is different, and she loses track of exactly how many degree’s she acquires over the years.

 

Maman has a new pet; a rat that calls himself Will and he is infuriating in every way possible.

 

He’s company, though, so she puts up with him.

 

//

 

She starts to play against Maman’s rules, even if it’s just a little.

 

Will catches on, but she blackmails him with the Debale of 1986 and he shuts up very quickly. He’s easy like that. Weak. He hasn’t had enough experience.

 

She doesn’t let herself get attached though. She spoils Maman’s plans, nothing further.

 

She can’t let herself get hurt in the process. Not again.

 

//

 

Laura was never meant to happen.

 

The heroic vampire crap had always annoyed her. Since that idiot wrote _Dracula_ people had been spreading lies about her kind and it was getting incredibly annoying.

 

But as she ran into the light, killing Maman and setting herself free for whatever small amount of time she had before she died too, she thought that maybe saving Laura in the process was a good thing.

 

A very good thing.

 

//

 

She wasn’t supposed to live, but _god_ if she isn’t glad that she did.

 

//

 

She runs away when she’s fifteen, but it takes significantly longer until she’s really free.

 

 


End file.
